The Wild Boy and Queen Moon Page 8

  A long, long silence.

  Then, ‘All right,’ said Anthony Speerwell.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Leo.

  ‘It’s true. I was there. I saw it happen.’

  ‘And Polly said we could make a team from here?’

  ‘She said her and Fireworks and Julia and one other.’

  ‘Who’s the one other?’

  Sandy had rather wondered that.

  Leo said, ‘Empress of China would do it if she had the right rider.’

  They both rode Empress of China. Sandy didn’t say anything, but noticed that Leo looked suspiciously vacant. Did she have ambitions? They were both growing out of their ponies fast.

  ‘Julia could ride Empress,’ she said. ‘Faithful’s too small for team-chasing.’

  ‘Faithful can jump anything.’

  ‘Team-chasers have to be fourteen two.’

  ‘Perhaps Jonas would come!’

  They went into a trance, gazing into the distance. Jonas now acknowledged them when they met – a quick nod of the head, no words, no smile. He hadn’t been arrested for stealing Gertie’s money. No-one had. The police had found no clues to go on.

  ‘She’s coming home tomorrow.’

  Gertie was coming to stay at Drakesend until she felt fit to go back to her cottage. Against her better judgement, Mary Fielding had offered the old girl a home. Sandy and Ian dreaded it, and Sandy felt bad about dreading it, but it made no difference – she just did. She thought her mother and father rather dreaded it too, but they didn’t admit to it. Grandpa drove them potty at times but he was their own and they were used to him, whereas Gertie . . . she wasn’t a quiet, smiling old thing sitting in a corner knitting, but a shrewish, waspish, talkative, fidgety, gossipy old bore.

  Nobody could quite foresee how Grandpa would take it. The two of them! Sandy groaned. She still worried about Duncan and the penknife and not telling anybody, and about the fact that she had lost – lost? – another thirty pounds that Stick and Ball had given her for their rent. She had put it in her anorak pocket and hung her anorak in the tackroom while she groomed King of the Fireworks. In the evening when she had looked for the money it had gone. People had been in and out all the evening, as usual; the pocket was zipped up and the money couldn’t have fallen out. She hadn’t told anyone this time, except Leo, and her father thought she had used the money to buy feed – he was a bit lax about her accounts and left her to make her own ‘money-book’. For some reason she could not explain, she did not want to tell her parents. She was frightened of who it might be, afraid that she might be badly hurt in the discovery. Her world was close and good, and she didn’t want anything spoiled. But the loss haunted her.

  ‘It was my fault. I should have put it in my jods. But I never thought it would happen again.’

  ‘We’ll have to set a trap,’ Leo said, ‘and watch.’ She was vague as to the details.

  ‘Do you think it’s the same person that pinched Gertie’s money?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leo.

  ‘That was wicked.’

  ‘So is taking money from someone who trusts you.’

  Sandy did not want to think about it. It was very nasty. If anything happened again, she would have to tell her parents. But her livery venture was a success so far, one of the few successes around lately, and she did not want to add to her father’s woes. He was proud of the stable and told everyone how hard she worked and what a good little businesswoman she was. It was nice to be respected. If Anthony Speerwell was really going to turn over a new leaf that would be a great bonus, and if they made up a team from the stable . . . who could tell where success would take them? Everyone needed dreams.

  The next day Gertie came home.

  She appropriated Grandpa’s chair beside the kitchen fire and started a long rambling diatribe about life in hospital. She said the same things over and over again. Grandpa came in and wanted his chair, but Mary Fielding tactfully deflected him into Bill’s chair and said she would bring Gertie’s own chair up from her cottage tomorrow and he could have his chair back then. The only good thing about Gertie was that she was now sparkling clean and smelled of soap and talcum powder – a great improvement.

  ‘That bang on the ’ead not done ’er any good as far as I can see,’ Grandpa said loudly. ‘Take more than that to shut ’er up.’

  ‘Hush, Dad. That’s not kind.’

  ‘I never said she could ’ave my chair.’

  ‘Just for tonight.’

  After supper, Gertie wanted a game show on television. Ian wanted his favourite sports report. Grandpa got his chair back by moving smartly from the supper table, and Gertie said the Fieldings had never had any manners and she remembered when old Herbert Fielding had farted in church during the Easter communion. Grandpa said she was a one to talk: he could remember her dropping her drawers to show the boys at a halfpenny a time behind the school coalshed—

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Mary Fielding hissed furiously, crashing the dishes into the sink. She turned the television up.

  Ian ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Sandy followed him and found him in the sitting-room which was only used at Christmas, huddled over the faintly warm storage heater. It was dark and she had a terrible shock when she saw that he was crying.

  ‘I can’t stand this place! I can’t stand it!’

  Sandy, for once, could not find it in her heart to criticize him. She stared out of the uncurtained window, pretending she hadn’t noticed his tears, and said blankly, ‘It’ll improve. Mum’ll sort it out. It’s only until she’s better enough to go back to her cottage.’

  ‘Grandpa’s just as bad!’

  ‘You mustn’t take any notice.’

  It was true that Grandpa was always telling Ian how young boys today had it made, were mollycoddled . . . ‘When I was lad I was out to work when I was eleven, hoeing turnips.’ Grandpa didn’t think a boy should work at his books. Cissy stuff. But Ian was strangely uptight these days. Sandy had a sudden horrendous thought that he might have taken her thirty pounds. He had come in the yard that night, she remembered suddenly, to get some binder twine. She felt all her insides go cold. She could not take this! Not after thinking about Duncan too.

  ‘I’ve had thirty pounds stolen, out of the tackroom. My livery money. I haven’t told Mum and Dad, but I don’t know what to do.’ She turned round and faced him. Neither of them had put the light on, but the room was filled with the cold moonlight of the February night. She saw Ian lift his head up from the storage heater.

  ‘You should tell them,’ he said.

  She felt better then.

  ‘It’s horrible. You suspect everyone. After Gertie as well.’

  He shrugged. ‘Everyone I know is short of cash. If you leave it lying about, what do you expect?’

  Sandy was shocked. ‘Why? You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. But I know a lot that would.’

  Who, Sandy wondered? But the icy fear of suspecting Ian had left her. How foul it was that this person’s offence polluted normal thinking – that she could have sprung to such a suspicion!

  ‘It’s hateful when you feel it must be someone you know.’

  Ian blew his nose, his self-pity deflected.

  Sandy switched the subject. ‘I suppose we could come here, away from them, if we light a fire.’

  ‘There’s no telly in here.’

  ‘Perhaps we could get one of our own.’ Julia Marsden had her own in her bedroom, Sandy remembered.

  It was a long time since she had spoken agreeably with Ian. He did have problems, she supposed. More than she did.

  ‘I’ll ask Julia if she’s got a spare. They seem to have two of everything at hers. Dishwasher, jacuzzi, yard-sweeper, electric groomer – she’s got her own video recorder as well as TV.’

  ‘I can’t think why she keeps her pony here.’

  ‘She likes us!’ Julia was getting too friendly with Leo, and had a crush on Anthony Speerwell.
Sandy could never work out how well she liked her. She was a prickly girl, quick to take offence, but she worked hard and helped.

  The house was freezing in February, but Mary Fielding agreed that to keep the peace there should be two living-rooms. The tractor was despatched up to the woods to bring home fallen timber for the sitting-room fire. She bought a portable television in a jumble sale and gave it to Ian. It had a ten-inch screen, but he didn’t complain. Grandpa and Gertie sat on in the kitchen, arguing and shouting at each other or else silently digesting soap opera and late-night sex discussions. Bill and Mary Fielding, divorced from the television, took up reading and tapestry respectively and found that they enjoyed their evenings more. Bill usually fell asleep, whatever he was doing.

  By the end of the month Polly had taught Tony – now that he had come to heel he was called Tony instead of Sneerwell – to get King of the Fireworks round the little jumping course in the schooling field. She had taught him to sit properly, use his hands properly, go forward with the horse and leave the horse’s head free over the jump. Because he was ambitious and reasonably talented, Tony learned fast. It was hard for him to accept Polly’s rather abrasive teaching in spite of his determination, for his natural arrogance kept bobbing up, but after two or three weeks they had come to terms with each other. Tony’s pride became a lever for Polly, her derision steeling him to ‘show her’.

  ‘It’s unbelievable – the improvement.’ Julia was impressed. ‘He really will be able to do a hunter trials in the spring at this rate. Perhaps I’ll take Faithful, too.’

  The competition fever was infectious: Sandy longed to have a pony that would do cross-country. George wasn’t a bad jumper but he stopped dead at anything he didn’t like the look of. He was very sensible. He hated water and ditches. And even his fastest gallop put him on the limit of ‘time allowed’. Besides which, Sandy’s heels came almost down to his knees.

  ‘I want a new pony,’ she whispered to her mother.

  ‘Bad luck, Sandy,’ said her mother gently. ‘No go, I’m afraid, at the moment.’

  As Uncle Arthur still wanted Empress of China exercised, both Sandy and Leo took it in turns to ride her. Fitter now, she was an easy ride and they both got to like the feel of a big horse. In spite of the fact that she was a funny-looking creature, she had good paces. But when she took a hold along the bottom pastures she could frighten them both with her thoroughbred power. They weighed nothing compared with Uncle Arthur and she thought she was a racehorse again with a little seven-stone lad astride. She dropped ten years and her dull old eyes glittered.

  ‘We’ve got our team,’ Polly exclaimed, watching. ‘Charlie’s Flying, King of the Fireworks, Empress of China and Faithful.’

  She carefully did not say who was to ride Empress of China.

  ‘What about Faithful being too small?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll get her shod with pads. Stand her on uneven ground when she’s measured. Something. It’s only an inch. No-one’ll object.’ Horse people, fierce competitors, were notorious at bending rules. ‘It’s not as if she’s got any form.’

  ‘She can certainly jump.’

  ‘She’s never done team-chasing.’

  Tony Speerwell, finding approbation, seemed to grow nicer. He was coming up to his nineteenth birthday and was going to have a party. He gave them all invitations.

  ‘Bring your boyfriends,’ he said kindly.

  They went scarlet.

  ‘We haven’t got any,’ said Leo bitterly, when they were alone. ‘Do you think Ian’d come if I asked him?’

  Sandy had been wondering about Duncan. But it was too embarrassing. She went into a dream about meeting Jonas and him saying how lovely she was and agreeing to take her to Speerwell’s party.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. It answered everything in her life. She felt deeply depressed. Since Gertie had come, home wasn’t as nice any more. Her mother had become irritable and over-pressed, keeping the peace between warring factions. Sometimes Gertie and Grandpa seemed to have taken over completely, turning a united front against the rest of them while they commandeered the fire and the best chairs and the television. Even the dogs left them and joined the family in the sitting-room.

  ‘Roll on summer,’ Mary said hopefully.

  ‘She’ll go then, won’t she?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  On Saturday morning, Sandy rode over to visit Josie. She thought Josie might be good for her. Josie and Glynn were always short of money: perhaps they would take Gertie? Gertie gave all her pension money to her hosts and, in fact, ate very little. It must be profitable. Sandy knew her mother didn’t do it for the money but because she was kind, but other people might do it for the money.

  It was a cheerful day, the sun slanting brightly across the marshes and the wild ducks mating noisily on the river. George went with gusto and Sandy forgot about what she didn’t have and decided that what she did have wasn’t bad at all. Moods swung for no reason. There was no cause for her to feel miserable. She could ask Josie what she should do about her missing thirty pounds. Josie always had an answer for everything. Her whole life had appeared to be in ruins when she got pregnant, but she had weathered the storm like a lifeboat. Josie never went under.

  Sandy had hoped she might meet Jonas, but she didn’t. However, when she left the sea-wall and turned up the track that led to the Elizabethan tower, she saw Queen Moon grazing at the side of Josie’s garden. Her rope halter was tied round her neck, but she was loose. When she saw George she lifted her head and gave a soft whinny.

  ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  Sandy pulled up and stared at her. She was a dream horse, shining like a silvery ghost in the shadows under the gnarled oaks; she was so fine and delicate compared with George. Yet Sandy knew she was as hard as nails. She had long, shapely ears and her forelock blew up in the morning breeze as she turned her head.

  ‘Oh, you are so beautiful!’

  To Sandy at that moment, Queen Moon was the essence of the unattainable; Queen Moon was perfection. Queen Moon was all her dreams rolled into one tangible thing, standing there looking at her with her huge, kind eyes. George stopped and gave a snort.

  ‘Oh, get on, pig,’ Sandy said, snappishly.

  Then she was sorry and gave him a pat, and he walked past Queen Moon to the gate of Josie’s garden. Sandy slipped off. She suddenly realized that Jonas might be visiting. Did he know Josie? Why else was Queen Moon there?

  ‘He’s gone with Glynn to give him a hand with some timber. Two-man job. Glynn met him down by the river and they got talking. Now he comes up to help sometimes,’ Josie explained.

  Sandy, having tied George up inside the fence, sat in Josie’s kitchen. It was the bottom room in the tower, round in shape like a lighthouse, with a stone staircase running up one wall to disappear through a hole in the ceiling. The ceiling was very high. Glynn had fixed a stove against the wall opposite the door, which had a wire-netting fence round it to keep the now crawling baby at bay, and there was a large table in the middle and a long sofa to sprawl on, colourful rag mats on the stone floor and a great forest of greenery growing out of pots. It didn’t look like anyone else’s kitchen that Sandy knew. The windows were made of Tudor glass in tiny leaded squares and gave a yellow, squinting view of the outside, so that nothing looked quite real. No wonder Josie was happy. Sandy wished she came more often: it was enchanting. But the livery yard took all her spare time.

  ‘Here, have a biscuit.’ Josie took a great tray of shortbread out of her Calor gas oven. She was always cooking or sewing or potting or producing something – a very creative girl. She never stopped. She flashed Sandy her quick, dark smile. She wore red dungarees and a navy shirt and her hair was a black cloud round her head. No wonder she had been snapped up before she was twenty. She was very like Ian in looks, Sandy noticed suddenly: they were both like their mother. She was like her father who was fair and paunchy. Just her luck.

  The baby, Selina, was biting the t
oe of her boot.

  ‘It’s been in the muck-heap, Selina.’ Sandy picked the baby up. It felt boneless and warm and cuddly. She wasn’t very good at holding it. It had a great loony smile with one tooth inside it and buttercup-yellow hair. It too was like its father.

  ‘Sneerwell’s asked us to his party. Bring a boy, he said. And I haven’t got one.’

  ‘You can have Glynn if you like.’

  ‘He’s too old.’

  ‘I thought you hated Sneerwell.’

  Sandy explained about his turning nicer.

  ‘They give wonderful parties,’ Josie said. ‘Go with Leo. It doesn’t matter about boys.’

  ‘Leo’s going to ask Ian.’

  ‘Oh well.’

  Sandy saw that there was no way she could ask Josie to take Gertie, as Gertie could not possibly fit in here. The idea was a non-starter. Gertie could never climb the lighthouse stairs to bed. Josie, as if telepathic, enquired about Gertie, and Sandy unloaded her moans, which made her feel better.

  ‘She just sits in the chair all day, talking, talking, talking. She doesn’t help at all. Yet in her cottage she used to be buzzing about all day. She drives us all nuts.’

  ‘Mum ought to get the social services. If she goes back to her cottage in the summer they could look after her there. After all, Mum used to. I’m sure it’ll get sorted out.’

  ‘She’s always criticizing. You wouldn’t mind if– if—’

  ‘If she was nice? No. I always thought she was a terrible old bag. You and Mum were always the nicest to her.’

  Sandy ate three more shortbreads and Josie made coffee. Selina was given two saucepan lids to play with.

  Sandy told Josie about losing the thirty pounds, and about Polly losing twenty.

  ‘That’s the worst, worse than Gertie. I haven’t told Mum and Dad. It must be someone around, someone we know.’

  ‘You ought to tell them!’

  ‘It was my fault, leaving it there. I can’t! They’ll be so angry.’ She couldn’t even begin to tell Josie about suspecting first Duncan, then Ian. She wished she hadn’t mentioned it, as Josie, instead of comforting, seemed about to launch an attack on her handling of her affairs. But at the opportune moment the door opened and Glynn came in. He carried a huge basket of wood offcuts for the stove.